The Oneironaut
by Nightsmoke
Summary: Four characters from Kuroshitsuji who wallow in their woes. A little dark. This was for practicing the power of parallelism-- reviews would be greatly appreciated, thanks! Omake chapter to follow soon.


Author's note: Wow...I had no idea that I was capable of such dark writing. This is probably due to school stress, and it needed a way out. Don't worry, I'll be getting back to the lighthearted stories soon!

**All characters of Kuroshitsuji © Toboso Yana, not me.**

* * *

_The Oneironaut _

It hurt.

The blood was quite an astonishing shade of claret, darkening his blue robe to black as it seeped out of his abdomen.

That was just fine, since it wasn't real anyway. He knew that he would wake up soon…because everything in his life was nothing but a dream. It had been that way for a while.

He sold people dreams. He let the men unable to deal with the hardships of reality bathe in their own fantasies until they could no longer tell the difference as to what existed and what did not.

Yet what he didn't tell those men was that it was perhaps even worse, to be trapped in a dream in which one cannot awaken from, than to never dream at all.

People often remarked on what an impervious noble Lau was. Nothing fazed him, and nothing came as a surprise. After all, how _could_ things that weren't real in the first place?

But what if this wasn't the dream? What if his eyes opened to see this, to discover that his supposed reality was nothing more than his own dream? Then… that would mean that one did not exist.

For as far as the eye could see there stretched a flower field, somewhere in the Kunlun Mountains, under a cool gray sky.

There was also the city of London, where it was raining and blood was dousing his clothes.

At that moment, he didn't know which one was real.

It was strange, though, how he could feel this much pain in a dream. But this wasn't right; he was the one who gave out the dreams. He sold unreality for a price and watched his customers sink deeper and deeper into it. So, _he_ shouldn't be the one trapped.

Yet, perhaps the most guilty of them all was the dream-seller himself.

But no matter.

The time had finally come to wake up.

* * *

_Scelus_

Sebastian is not like most demons.

He is older than many, and has seen far more than most of the infantile imps that wander aimlessly throughout the human world. Sebastian had once been like them: lively and eager to succumb to delicious wiles—but he has grown tired of sin after committing so many.

He remembers his times as a demon servant to Caligula, in the first century. He remembers coming to the Emperor's bedside as he was in the throes of death, offering him life in exchange for a soul. Sebastian recalls urging the Emperor to levy taxes, urging him to walk around town dressed like a god so that others would recognize his power; he recalls holding down Caligula's sisters and watching passively as the Emperor forced himself upon them.

He remembers dropping Asian Black rats, still alive, into the fountains of Constantinople. In Europe he had fed the infected rats food from the markets, and remembers putting the food back for people to buy once the rats had eaten some. He remembers seeing the red spots, the blackened skin, and remembers the smile on his face as he realized that it was all his doing.

He also remembers working for the Tigress of Čachtice some three-hundred years later. Society deems her legends to be false, but Sebastian knows that truth rings to them. He was there.

He remembers bringing the Countess young virgin girls every month, captivating them on the streets and luring them insidiously into his clutches. He remembers licking up their blood once the Countess had finished with them, relishing the pure taste of chastity. Many were held on trial for their disappearances, but not he.

And now, after a bicentennial later, Sebastian watches his new master. The times have changed, and so has Sebastian. Although his stomach aches something fierce, he refuses to satiate his lust. He has grown tired of his "previous life," as he puts it, where he had only slept to dream and awakened to eat, and then slept to dream again. For him, human souls hold none of the flavor that they once did.

He realizes that there is more to this world than consumption. Sin no longer compels him; he has found a new master with a new niche. Recidivism tempts him from time to time, however Sebastian knows that he can get a better purpose out of life.

But sometimes…

…sometimes he is just so _hungry_.

* * *

_Troglodytic_

It was astonishingly beautiful, that flower, right down to the last pellucid petal.

Finnian had always been partial to anything pretty, since he had grown up seeing only ugly things.

But once his eyes had been opened, he saw that life was gorgeous.

The way the dew collected on the ends of the morning trees and caught the reflection of the sun so that it glistened like starlight.

The way the furry woodland creatures gamboled through the weeds, as if they hadn't a care in the world.

The way the birds twittered mellifluous tunes of their own and how it echoed in the peaceful silence of the day.

The vibrant colors of the wildflowers and the verdant leaves that speckled the trees.

These things were so beautiful that it was almost more than Finnian could bear. He would reach out with tentative fingers, longing to have something of that world touch his skin. He would pick the flower and stroke the soft petals in his hand.

When he looked down, the flower was crushed.

For as long as he could remember, Finnian had been stronger than most normal people—one wouldn't think it looking at his scrawny arms and boyish figure. He liked to help others by lifting their furniture for them or moving cumbersome things that had gotten in their way. They thanked him and complimented him on his physical strength.

But what happened when your own strength exceeded your expectations, and ended up destroying something that was precious?

He remembered himself as a little boy, reaching out to pet a kitten. It had only been a stroke, to touch that soft fur. He had ended up breaking its back.

For a year Finnian wouldn't go near cats.

The next time dared to venture outdoors, a butterfly had landed in his palm. It was a painted blue butterfly, and it was the most elegant thing he had ever seen. He touched its wing lightly with his other hand.

The wing broke off in his fingers, and the butterfly died.

Finnian couldn't stand to destroy something beautiful. For that reason he stayed indoors for most of his childhood, watching the world pass him by from behind a window.

* * *

_Caught Red-handed_

Although she had never admitted it to anyone aloud (save for her husband), Angelina had always wanted a child. Those accustomed to her frivolous nature and her fluttering attraction to social gatherings would be surprised of this fact.

_A mother? You?_ They would inquire, perhaps cocking their heads to emphasize their confusion.

Yes, ever since her sister had given birth to a baby boy, Angelina Durless had wanted to raise a child of her own. She loved the innocence of children, and secretly thought that a little one's smile was brighter than any ray of sunshine.

Her husband would put his ear to her stomach lightly, after he became a sire, listening to the growing life inside. Mr. Durless would smile, imagining the new addition to their family.

So when Angelina lost them both to a splintered twist of fate, her dreams of having children vanished with them.

But that wasn't to say she stopped dreaming _of_ children.

They would visit her when the sun fell to the bottom of the sky, laughing and giggling in voices that only she could hear. Sometimes they would whisper.

She dreamed of children, as the wounds on her body slowly healed and the bandages came off one by one.

Children, playing catch with a little red ball in a grassy field.

Children, drawing together with a stick in the mud, laughing as they got their hands and feet dirty.

Children, who would hold their mother's hands as they walked through the lightly-falling rain, splashing and shrieking as the rain hit their faces.

Children, who would run into their mother's arms and kiss her cheek as she lifted them up.

During the daytime, the ladybirds would flock into her clinic. They came bearing something that she desired ineffably. Unlike her, they had something that she could never hope to acquire, and yet they wanted to throw it away like a brown, rotted apple.

_A child would only be a menace_,_ anyway,_ they would say as they tossed their shiny hair to the side. _Get rid of it for me._

That was when Angelina truly saw red.

She fulfilled her role as a female doctor and did as they wished, killing their unborn children so that those ladybirds could continue to please their clients, ripping out womb after womb.

But soon after, the women too joined them.

Then a man had shown up, or rather, a thing that took the shape of a man. He had been watching as she did her nightly work from up high atop a building.

He looked at her hands, which were dripping with blood that appeared a glistening plum color against the light of the moon, and grinned.

His mouth was full of fangs.


End file.
